Black Roses for Sorrow, Red Roses for Passion
by KatrinaKaiba
Summary: Its about four years after the fatal accident of the opera populaire where Don Juan made its first and last debut onstage. Hidding amongst the shadows once more to contend with his horrors, the Phantom of the Opera meets the glance of a passing woman who
1. Julia Paine

_**Black Roses for Sorrow, Red Roses for Passion**_

_**Chapter 1 Julia Paine**_

_Could the sky be any more the opposite of my mood?_

A brilliant crystal blue was the sky, and hardly a cloud could be found gracing its pearly presence. Yet the soul of the debutante, one Julia Paine, skulking along the bustling streets of Paris, her feet shuffling to a rhythm of melodramatic sadness, was far from being as jovial as that of the blue celestial sphere that draped like a blanket above her. How ironic it is, she thought quietly as she shuffled, that the sky's color is blue signifying happiness, yet the feeling within her heart would be considered blue as well, signifying sorrow.

But now this feeling was too common within her moods that it was barely acknowledged anymore. In fact, the only feeling that constantly pressed into her mind was that of lack of feeling. Meaning, that inside she felt a part of her missing, or perhaps even, disappeared, leaving behind its empty, hollow multitude to consume her. She had to let this go, the need to move on from the endless wanderings and pursue a much more eminent, or maybe a standard life even, was pushing fiercely against her mind. She was simply tired of trying to fix all the things in her life that she couldn't avoid or attempt to change. There just wasn't enough time in a lifetime to squeeze that much in. No, that morning she had gotten out of her 20 franc bed that could barely fit a small child, opened the cracked and rusted window pane, breathed in the fresh crisp winter air of France, and decided that today would be the day she changed...the day she started her life over, and she hoped that this metamorphism would take her away from the horrors that, which now, haunted her to no end.

Staring at the empyrean of the crystalline blueness above her she noticed far off in the distance a slight movement. Misjudging it as a bird, she glanced away, but at a double take she noticed it took a much larger shape than a normal bird, and squinting against the harsh rays of the sun she pursued a closer look. But alas, as she preyed, it had vanished. Shaking her head and simply believing her mind was finally playing tricks on her in punishment for lack of nourishment, her gaze fell upon a breath taking building.

No...breath taking could not possibly do justice for the magnitude of gravity that weighted upon the right word. Thousands sprang into her mind such as picturesque, sensational, elating, glamorous even startling enough...romantic.

Taking on examples of Greek and Roman architecture, the grand columns that lined the forepart of the building loomed over her and gave the impression of great power and presence while being accommodated by the immense spacing of the marble steps that encompassed the entire entrance. The archways that lined the entire building were angled symmetrically and were identical on both sides which contained intricate stone patterns and arch angels either holding trumpets or horns, which to her seemed to signify victory. Symbols were pivotal when it came to art. For those were the secrets the painters, architects, musicians, etc, held out for their admirers and patrons. If one was truly clever or perhaps dedicated enough, one could pick up on these little 'secrets'. And that was what Julia devoted her life to: the arts and its many secrets. Walking slowly toward the edifice she noted the ribbon extremes and the sculptured gargoyles preserving a facade that seemed to say that only the worthy were considered of high enough esteem to enter the depths of mystery and the building's silence.

Catching a movement in her perephrial, she turned sharply to find a woman in a conspicuous and, well, interesting fashion. Catching the feeling of her throat once again, she spoke suddenly to her.

"Excusez moi madame?" (Excuse me, madame?)

"Oui, mademoiselle?" the woman stared in slight scorn but quickly hid it as she stared in mock interest at the stumbling young lady's fortune.

"Pardon, mais, quel est cela(Pardon, but, what is that?)

"C'est la opera populaire, mademoiselle." (That is the opera populaire miss)

And with that she turned on her extravagant heels and proceeded with her original musings.

Turning back toward the building, she looked at it with new found interest.

_Opera huh? How much more art could you ask for?_

_Roof_

Peering down from his usual perch on top of the opera roof, he watched as the usual scenes of life in his beloved France passed without a second thought as he hid deep within the shadows of the blanket of his opera. He was a phantom of the essence of art that breathed through the elder cracks and channels that left through the pores of the sorcerous palace and it was his domain to reign. He was deprived of the sweet wonders of life during the day due to his position, so he reveled it in the shadows away from wandering eyes and suspicious. His friends were the stationary gargoyles and angels that laced their way in the discipline of the products of human creativity. His life was the passion of art, its mingled eccentrics and endless wonders of awe and amazement.

Just then, settling out of his reverie, his gaze caught upon those of another. Not being able to judge appearance due to his altitude, he was merely able to determine a female and kept glancing slightly as she turned in confusion, but just as she turned back, he vanished as he was so professional of doing. For what would be the use of having a title such as phantom, if one did not have the ability to disappear as quickly as being seen?

_Interesting_, he thought to himself as he watched the young woman approach a much older madame while she stared at his opera house with intense interest...

_Very interesting..._


	2. The Opera Populaire

_**A/N Hello everyone, forgot to mention this in the last chapter (it was midnight, so sue me). For my usual readers this is a totally different type of writing for me, so if it's not up to my usual, please review me and let me know. No flames please, only constructive criticism. Thanks**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or its characters (sadly) but I do own characters that are created by my own imagination(which is a scary place I might add)

_Now for chapter 2..._

_**Black Roses For Sorrow, Red Roses For Passion**_

_**Ch. 2 The Opera Populaire**_

_A palace fit for a king_

_An artist's masterpiece._

Sentiments of this nature could only be used to describe the Opera Populaire. On the outside, one saw the stoic facade and perhaps an intimidating presence which must have cause d a fair few visitors to reconsider their earlier sentiments to pursue the alluring mystery that waited inside, practically beckoning them with a strange field of gravitational force that could only be possible from something invisible. So it would be safe to assume, that the interior of the opera house was just as enchanting as the exterior. Except, that to simply mention it as the word enchanting was certainly not using sufficient adjectives to serve it justice.

As one walks inside, Julia noticed, one feels that the air is being sucked out from within for the building was simply too breathtaking for a scant breath to take up the edifice's own personal space. Up those marble steps and entering the golden archway below the carved sign "L'Opera Populaire", Julia felt her heart stop as a sudden bursting light forewith came and struck her directly at her sensitive organ. Thousands of candelas hung off the walls and its celebrated light danced gaily on the aureate design, the luster causing a heavenly glow that etched its way into every crevice, every slope and meander precisely cut into the architecture, creating grand columns and sculptures to bedazzle a king. And on the upper positions of the walls and massive ceiling, the elegant surfaces were completely packed in such eloquence, revealing figures of ancient times past, recalling their history on the blanket of the walls. If one merely had the time, once could perhaps come up with the many possibilities for the quizzical glances and the secret alignment of the positions of the characters in each portrait. But being that she was neither a historian of art nor a person who longed to waste time, she kept moving.

The hallway, for simply because it was framed into a long but spacious floor way it was rightly named in her mind as such, ended in the pronouncement of a ruby encrusted door, laced with intricate designs and polished to such that her face gleamed back at her, giving her disheveled appearance a more regal stature. Gripping the brass knob tightly she turned it to the right, and pushed forward.

A room was merely not appropriate for what she had just stumbled upon. The grandest room in the entire building and she would appropriately term if for justice sake. The theater of the Opera Populaire was truly what one would consider a masterpiece of itself. The rouge carpeted seats circled like a dome much like an amphitheater that was found convenient in ancient Rome's gladiator days. Its comfort outlined by millions of nude woman gracing each pillar and the balconies graced with the same golden luster of the main hallway. The stairs also were carpeted in the deep luscious red raised deep into the theater ending at the top balconies for those who were applicable to afford such a solace and view. Encompassing the entire room into her mind, she turned toward, finally, the grandest sight ever to behold.

The stage.

Many would not think this was the grandest aspect of the opera house, but it enticed her to no end. Lifting her skirts so she would not trip, she inched toward the stage. It seemed lifeless and perhaps even lonely. Glancing up at the ceiling she noticed a grand chandelier but it seemed the light fixtures were more update or modern, and she couldn't help but wonder if they were changed for a specific purpose, or if she were simply imagining things.

Climbing the steps of the stage, she remembered the first and last time, she had ever been to an opera. And that opera was "Aida". The tragic love story enveloped her heart, even despite the fact of her meager age, and from then on she always longed for music. Through out her childhood, anything that could make music was hers for the taking.

Reflecting on those times, she remembered one song in particular from the play that changed her life and it seemed, according to her circumstances, that it was a satisfactory title, _The Past is Another Land. _Warming her vocal cords to the opening chords, she hummed the opening rhythm in her mind, marveling at how she remembered it after all these years, and opening her mouth slightly, the words began to pour out.

_You know nothing about me and care even less  
How could you understand our emptiness  
You've plundered our wisdom, our knowledge, our wealth  
In bleeding us dry  
You long for our spirit  
But that you will never possess _

The past is now another land  
Far beyond my reach  
Invaded by insidious  
Foreign bodies, foreign speech  
Where the timeless joys of childhood  
Lie broken on the beach  
The present is an empty space  
Between the good and bad  
A moment leading nowhere  
Too pointless to be sad  
But time enough to lay to waste  
Every certainty I had

The future is a barren world  
From which I can't return  
Both heartless and material  
Its wretched spoils not my concern  
Shining like an evil sun  
As my childhood treasures burn  
Shining like an evil sun  
As my childhood treasures burn

The passion of the song echoed around her, and the agony of the words struck fiercely against her heart and she felt the unshed tears course down her face as the last note was held for its appropriate time, echoed, and then faded into the darkness once more. Harsh images of pleasant childhood memories only iced her heart and she slumped onto the floor wrapping into herself. Until she heard a voice that caused her to lift her head. A voice so gentle and angelic in its baritone that it caused her tears to cease...

"_Brava...Brava..._bravissimi..." the strange voice sang

"Brava! Brava! Stupenda!"

Shocked out of her reverie, she turned harshly toward the new intruding sound.

There stood on the upper deck of the stairs, were two aging men who she guess were around their late forties early fifties. Snappily dressed in chic french suits, they stood like an odd couple. The taller one was lean and graced a mustache and salt and pepper hair. The other, was shorter than his companion with hair that struck out to wherever its fancy and was like the color of cloudy skies hinting to rain.

"My dear woman wherever did aquire-"

"Such a skill. Your voice is a-"

"Rareity that only that of-"

"An angel can pull off?"

Slightly unnerved by the answering of each other's sentences, Julia merely stared at them, too speechless to try words, momentarily forgetting where that strange voice came from.

"Oh Richard I believe she is quite stunned by our compliments" chuckled the shorter of the two"

"Yes Giles, but one cannot deny the working of a prima donna."

_Prima what?_

"Madame or mademoiselle, allow us to introduce ourselves," the taller one stated with confidence, "We are Mssrs. Andre and Firmin, managers of the Opera Populaire. And we would like, if you would be our star."

Julia only did what any woman would do in this situation. She fainted.

Meanwhile

He watched from the shadows in his normal seat in box five that was now and would always be kept empty for him. It only took a shattered chandelier and a massive cause of destruction and panic to ensure what he wanted, and it seemed, to him anyway, the end justified the means.

He was simply helping to come up with the faults of the dancers in the corps de ballet from their earlier rehearsal that afternoon, when _she_ walked in.

Who she was, he had no idea, but the way she walked into the theater held his mind in such an intrigue it was hard to be brought out of it.

She had dark ebony hair, pulled back into a braid which swung like a pendulum when she walked. Her body was cloaked into what appeared to be a fairly simple black day dress, which indicated a sense of mourning. But what did he know, he was merely trapped in a Opera house. The fashion these days could be the raving style for women. She wasn't a stick of a figure, heavens no. Her body was voluptuous in all the right areas, especially in bodice and hips, and lean around waist and legs. The Phantom felt a sense inside him stirring. A longing which had kept buried these past two years, and it ached in him like a hot flame from a burning candle pressed into one's hand. Turning to leave to escape the feelings, he gathered his supplies, and just as he went to sweep the curtain back to make his noiseless leaving, he stopped when he heard singing.

Singing...

Turning back toward the balcony, he overlooked to see the young chit on stage...pouring her soul into the words of the outspoken and reckless Aida. Stunned by the beauty of the sound and the poise and strength that accompanied it, he sat back in his chair once more, and watched as the young dame amazed him to no end.

Toward the end of her aria, he noticed her voice was more choppy, as if her throat was catching inside. Once the last notes rang out, she saw that she slumped onto her knees and sobbed, the cries of sadness echoing in the room forming a melody of a painful air.

Why he did it, he would never know, but he felt compelled to help her somehow, and with that in the forepart of his senses, he sang out words he never knew he would sing out to anyone again.

He knew she heard him, and was delighted when she began trying to search for the voice...

But then her pursuit was interrupted by those two meddlesome idiots that ran his opera.

He listened to the conversation proposed by the incapable twits, and smiled when they praised her for her singing. But then he became shocked at the mention of her being the star of their newest production, or perhaps because she fainted afterwards.

_How ironic that it was to be Aida..._


End file.
